To Remain
by JujuBird
Summary: One of the last elves keeps watch over Middle Earth, 200 years after the War of the Ring. She has seen nothing but peace in the last few centuries...but is trouble on the horizon? Read and Review
1. Chapter 1

This story has just been reviewed and revamped, for the first time in a few years…So thanks to those who read it before, and thanks to those who are reading it now.

Disclaimer: Me. Not. Tolkien.

Ainë Calliel pulled her green elvish cloak tightly around herself as big, fat droplets began to fall from the sky, causing the thick silvery leaves of the mallorn to tremble and shake. Mist had settled around the great trunks of the trees of Lorien. The place was, in Ainë's opinion, entirely too quiet.

She was less than fifteen miles from Lothlorien (or, what was left of the city). At this distance, two centuries ago, she would have been able to hear the rustling of the Wardens in the branches above her. She would have been able to hear the faint echoes of elflings playing in the streams. Now, all she heard was pure, earthen silence. It was 198 years after the War of the Ring, and the beginning of the Fourth age.

Most of the elves had gone into the West, save maybe a hundred or so that remained in Mirkwood, Ithilien, Lorien, and Imladris. Tiny colonies that remained entrenched in their ancestral habitats, either afraid to let go of the land that they loved, or simply unready to give up on a land they had sworn to protect. From what Ainë had heard, there was little to do in the way of protecting. The humans of Rohan and Gondor had kept peace in their realms remarkably well. The Easterlings had been unbelievably peaceable since their defeat. The dwarves were rebuilding their numbers, re-establishing the ravaged Moria to its former glory.

Ainë had never heard her call from the sea, and frankly never wished to leave on the gray ships…though a loneliness weighed heavily upon her heart since the departure of her friends and parents. She missed the golden years of the elves, when they had roamed freely and powerfully. When Men and elves had open dealings with one another.

For one reason or another, elves had begun to fade into myth in the minds of Men…And those elves that stayed in Middle Earth let it become so, living in secret obscurity. They rarely left their villages, except to guard and maintain the empty shells that once were their cities. That particular sorrow and heaviness still lay in her heart.

Ainë was content with the life of a wanderer. She considered herself a keeper of the leaders of Middle Earth-for now, an educator and advisor. She made certain that the kings always remembered from whom they were descended…and who had assisted their ancestors in the past. Ainë was a memory-keeper. She had been almost everywhere in Middle Earth, and had sat at the hearth of the leaders of Men, dwarves, and hobbits since the reign of Aragorn and Arwen. Their great-grandson, Astalmir Telcontar, now ruled._ "What a fine lad,"_ she thought, remembering the boy as she'd last seen him…ten years old, waving around a sleek birch-wood sword that Eldarion had given him for his Begetting Day. Despite the years that had past, Astalmir looked as elflike as Arwen had. A delightful anomaly-and reminder-for the royal family. _They_, at least, could never forget their elven heritage.

Ainë led her horse through the maze of foliage and onto a familiar Lorien road. The soft, cool autumn breeze brought a whiff of the last of the summer niphredil flowers. Her eyes drifted shut and her head sunk back, face bared towards the patches of sun that the leaves allowed to bathe the forest floor in gold. She opened her mind and senses, feeling her horse's broad back beneath her, her long hair stirring across her delicate cheekbones, the soft linen of her shirtsleeves rubbing her wrists like the hands of a lover. For a moment, she was lost in the bliss of the woods. Her forest. Her home. _"Oh, how I love living!"_ She thought, a slow, sweet smile spreading across her face.

Her horse Fanya snorted anxiously. Ainë's hand drifted to the hilt of her sword, subconsciously. Men now dared to travel these sacred roads, and she had to be watchful. She opened her eyes, scrutinizing the area, while drawing her hood about her face. It would be better for anyone she met to think she was just a ranger on patrol. Her ears detected the pounding of destrier's hooves on the ground, muffled by grass and fallen leaves.

She debated urging Fanya into the shadows, her sleek grey body blending with the phantoms of Lorien. The horse's innate elf-magic would hide it from the untrained eye, human or otherwise. At the last second, she decided against it, relaxing Fanya into a slow gait. She could handle whomever presented themselves, and she liked to hear news from hunters, nomads, or rangers that she came upon.

Three men riding black horses came over the top of the hill ahead of her. She tightened her grip on her sword. It remained in its place, for the moment…Though her warrior's instinct was as volatile as ever. The approaching men looked to be Gondorian, with dark brown hair and the white tree on their garments. They rode up and attempted to surround her, but Fanya's ghostlike silhouette danced away, towards the edge of the wood. The black mounts whinnied, as though greeting one they knew to be a descendant of equine royalty. Fanya snorted. She had no patience for humans and their ignorance.

Artamir narrowed his eyes at the lone rider. The man was slight, clad in a common green cloak, head bowed. As he, Aldas, and Gareth approached, he noticed the fine tooled leather of the bags slung over the uncanny horse's back…as well as the absence of a saddle. Aldas flung a puzzled, unsure glance his way. Artamir raised a hand, bringing the group to a halt, traditionally attempting to encircle the green-clad one. The Ghost-Horse melted into the shadows, its flanks blending into the dark shrubbery and absence of light.

"Whoa," Artamir said softly, code for _leave off_. The three steeds backed up, unsure. He hesitated, looking the rider over again. The cloak covered him to his knees, but his trousers were of a fine, chocolate-brown wool. His boots were better-made than any Artamir had yet seen, as was the bow and quiver slung over his back. He could not see the man's sword, but he could see how the man's pale hand rested on the ornate pommel, and guessed that it had not gone unused or untested. _"Curious, indeed…"_ he thought.

"What is your business in this place, traveler?" he asked as he dismounted, a gesture of good faith. He was too terribly intrigued by this man to frighten him into a chase. "Where do you hail from, and what is your name?"

"My business is my own," replied he. "And I wonder how bored patrollers such as you must be to stop every person on the road." Artamir smiled, and his men dismounted as well.

"We are simply doing our duty," said Gareth irritably. He had been grumbling all day, wishing for home and cursing the gods again and again for the rain and the cold.

"Very well. My name is of little consequence, as is my destination. If you must know, I bound for Minas Tirith."

"Why do you hide your face," asked Aldas. "And your voice is awfully high…Whatever _is_ that accent?"

"I would rather just be on my way, so if you do not mind, I bid you good day," replied the rider, his horse's flanks disappearing into the afternoon twilight.

"Wait a minute," said Artamir. He moved towards man, grasping his ankle in an attempt to keep him from leaving. The stranger leapt off of the horse's bare back in a green blur, and whipped out a long, ornate, silver sword. The man in the cloak held it out in front of himself in a gesture of casual, yet effective swordsmanship. Should anyone get an inch closer, they would have a blow to parry.

"Do not come near me, please," Ainë half-growled. "I mean no trouble." _"Oh, dear…" _she thought. _"I am acting like a rash elfling. By the Valor, where _is _my self-control?"_ The two subordinate men pulled their own swords from their scabbards, though their leader held a warning hand up. "I really do not wish to fight you," she said warningly as the two glared at her.

"You are outnumbered," said the youngest fiercely.

"So it seems, young one," commented Ainë offhandedly, making eye contact with the leader of the group. He was quite tall for a human, with deep green eyes and black hair. The strongest ranger blood she had seen in several decades. He seemed startled as he peered into her hooded face, examining her striking violet eyes, no doubt. Hers from her mother.

"Young one?"

"Drop your weapon, in the name of the King!" Ordered the one with the tied-back, goldish hair.

"I do not wish to fight you," Ainë said again, carefully, "But I will not hesitate to defend myself." She did not break gazes with the first of the men.

Suddenly the youngest rashly made a stab at her. As she deflected it, her hood slipped down to her neck. There was a collective sharp intake of breath.

"A woman!" gasped the golden-haired one, sheathing his sword. The other followed suit, ashamedly. He stared at her with awe.

"By the Valar!" cried Ainë angrily. "Just because I am a woman does not mean that you should sheath your swords. What _are_ they teaching you at the palace, these days? I shall have a word with Astalmir about this."  
"Your ears are pointed," said the youngest man stupidly.

"Yes, Master Obvious," said Ainë. "That is because I am an elf." She sheathed her sword with trepidation. Nothing was more tiring then having to explain herself to a group of foolish mortals when she'd had nothing to eat all day.

"But…elves are pure legend," said the first man skeptically. Before she could stop him, he reached out and brushed her left ear with his fingertips. Though the touch was feather-light, she nearly sunk to her knees from the sensation.

"Do not ever do that again," she said breathed dangerously, trying to quell the burning in her chest and lower abdomen, the lust and warmth that surfaced invariably, like oil on water. "To be so free with yourself to an elf, and a stranger…A few centuries ago, you may have lost your hand."

The man looked uncomfortable as she regained her composure and tucked a smooth brown braid behind her ear. "I apologize, my lady," he said, sinking to his knee, head down. The others followed suit.

Fanya snorted. Ainë rolled her eyes. "Get up, I beg you. My being inhuman is certainly nothing to grovel about. Though, perhaps, your manners and training are," she added. "Your names, I think, will make up for your transgression."

The leader spoke up. "I am Artamir, and this is Gareth," he indicated the young man, "and Aldas. We are of the Gondorian army."

"You are not exactly in Gondor here," mused Ainë. "This is still the realm of Lorien." Gareth looked confused.

"Lorien? I've heard of no such place. This is certainly Fangorn!"

Ainë sighed. "Lorien is the Golden Wood. Once ruled by the Lady of Light Galadriel and now ruled by her kin. Home of a few of the elves that remain in Arda. Once you crossed the Field of Celebrant, you entered our territory."

"I thought she was just a myth," said Gareth. "The Forest Witch, that is."

"Indeed not. She was a friend of mine." Ainë adjusted her golden elanor brooch and smoothed her cloak with her long fingers, the closest to a nervous gesture an elf could get. "If you do not much mind, my good sirs, I must be off. Daylight is too short to waste." She leapt onto Fanya's back.

"We will escort you to Minas Tirith," Artamir said gravely.

"I cannot see a maid traveling so far alone," Gareth said with as much bravado as he could muster, as the men mounted their own horses.

Ainë stared at him with a wintry gaze. "How old do you think I am?" she asked in a cold voice.

"Lady," replied Gareth nervously, "You look no older than 20 years of age."

She smiled mirthlessly. "Young one, I am three thousand, nine hundred and twenty one years old. I have seen the ages of this world go by, and have fought battles of which you could never dream of. I can take care of myself by now, I should think."

"All the same," said Artamir, "We are going there as well. We will go with you."

"No offense meant," she replied, "But you could only slow me down."

"No offense meant, my lady, but we could only learn from you. If we were to spend a few weeks on horseback accompanying you, is it not true that you could assist us in perfecting our swordsmanship and our travel etiquette?"

She surveyed the trail once more before looking back on him, a wry smile gracing her lush lips. The sight nearly took his breath away. "What is your rank, sir?"

"Captain."

Ainë sighed audibly again in a very unelf-like manner. "If you must come..." She spurred her horse forward into a gallop without warning, a ghost in the waning light. They silently followed her through the woods, towards the heart of the forest that they three had believed haunted since childhood.

"Lirimaer," Ainë cooed softly to Fanya, brushing the horse's coat with the silver comb her father had given her shortly before his departure. It bore the family's elanor crest, as well as the elvish inscription, _Loved are you, always_.

Aldas watched her, the glint of fascination still evident in his intelligent eyes. "What are we to call you, my Lady Elf?"

"Yesh," Gareth said through a mouthful of apple. "Wot is yur name?"

"Ainë. Daughter of Calla. Descended from the people of Imladris."

"A Rivendel elf?" Artamir asked, settling himself by the small fire, warming his hands.

"Yes."

"Are you truly thousands of years old?"

Ainë looked at Gareth. "When I was born, your great-great-great-great-great-grandmother was not yet in existence."

Aldas chuckled as the blood drained from Gareth's ruddy face. "Boy, your mind will have to be far more open then it currently is to grasp her," he nodded in Ainë's direction.

The three men watched as she unpinned her cloak and shook the day's dust out of it. They drank in the lean, strong, feminine body that was clad in a man's trousers and a deep amethyst tunic over a cream-colored shirt. She caught their looks and raised an eyebrow.

"If we are to travel together, sirs, I expect you not to look at me like a barmaid from the Grey Dove Tavern."

Aldas cleared his throat and looked away. "I can't imagine what you're talking about. I was just looking at the stars over yonder."

"Very good," Ainë said, laying her blankets on the ground and wrapping herself again in her cloak. "I love a fast learner."


	2. Chapter 2

Just a note: Ainë is pronounced "eye-nay". And the name was changed because 1) I wasn't too fond of Arien and 2) Jules14 dutifully pointed out to me that Arien is the name of one of the Maia, and the elves would never name one of their offspring after her…it would be disrespectful. And I did not want to disrespect the elves.

Disclaimer: I think disclaimers are dumb, and I'm boycotting them.

Ainë stared up at the stars that peeked between the boughs of the trees. Bright little ornaments, representing those elven folk who had walked the land before her. Eärendil. Nimrodel. Amroth. She sighed. _"You cannot dwell on the past so. Remember what Mother always said…'Mope about like a dull little Anduin fish and you'll fade before our very eyes.' Valor, did I despise being called Little Fish. There is one positive aspect of being separated from her by a sea." _She slowly released the breath she had been holding in, and rolled onto her side. _"You have duties to see to, bestowed upon you by Estel, Gandalf, and the Lady herself. Find the happiness in things, or just go build your ship now, and get it over with."_ She smiled slightly, savoring the self-pity and the irony, and unfocused her eyes, drifting into an uneasy slumber.

"**Ainë, manke ier lle?" (**where are you?)

**She looked around for who had spoken. "Sinome!" **(here!) **she called. "Sinome!" She was in the little glade by the Nimrodel River that she always had inhabited while in Lothlorien. The trees were more golden than usual, sparkling with every breeze. It was a warm, achingly beautiful summer.**

"**Ainë," the voice said again. She looked over her right shoulder, seeing a figure in the trees. The voice was deep, speaking Elvish with a note of velvet that any elf could be envious of. **

**She reached for her reassuring scabbard, her instinct getting the best of her overwhelmed senses, but felt nothing but smooth, rustling layers of silk. She peered down. A gown, made of the purest violet, covered her thighs. She heard a twig snap and looked up abruptly, coming face-to-face with him. The tip of his nose almost touched hers, his green eyes boring deeply into hers.**

**She gasped and stepped back, only to feel his hands gripping her wrists, holding them at his sides. An uncharacteristic fear and vulnerability rose in her throat, causing her to freeze. She struggled, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, which was now buried in her hair. She could hear him inhaling deeply, taking in her scent like an animal memorizing the smell of its prey. She was torn between being delighted or indignant, scared or lustful.**

"Lady."

Ainë's eyes focused immediately. It was night still, perhaps a few hours from dawn. Artamir was looking at her from his own pallet. She blinked.

"Yes?"

"Have you not slept?"

"Of course I have." She was nervous. She should have felt his wakefulness, even in her own slumber. Had she taken leave of her senses? Even her most intense dream had not impeded her so. _"A vision, then," _she thought, mentally shaking herself. "Captain," she began, "Why is a group of Gondorian soldiers, made of only three men, wandering the space between the foothills of the Misty Mountains and the River Anduin? This is at least five hundred miles from the White City. It was my belief that the people of Gondor parleyed with the people of Rohan, but never crossed the Hithaeglir, or stepped within a hundred yards of Moria. And yet, you came from the north." She gazed at him serenely. "Where have you been?"

Discomfort radiated off of Artamir as he turned his eyes guiltily to the dying embers of the fire. "Our mission is of the utmost secrecy," he murmured, "bestowed upon us by the King, himself."

Ainë's face remained unchanged. "I should think that I could be trusted with such sensitive information." Usually, she would have allowed any fellow traveler to keep his secrets. But she was a caretaker of sorts for all of Middle Earth, and it was currently her business to know everyone else's.

He grunted, steeling himself. "Perhaps you are right. But I mustn't reveal anything. Should you wish it, you may question the King once we reach the White City."

Ainë relaxed a little. _"It is good to see that _someone_ hasn't lost their sense of loyalty. He will keep his confidence…for now."_ She smirked. _"The boy will tell me, anyhow."_

She rose to her feet in one fluid motion, feeling the elven grace down to her bones. She took an exhilarating breath of air. _"How I love who I am."_ She began to absentmindedly braid the locks of hair in front of her ears, leaving them exposed to the dark, frigid air. She would sleep no more, after the vision.

It troubled her greatly, what she had seen and felt. No _real_ elf or man had been able to conjure those tumultuous feelings in her, much less one of her mind's making. She was angry at herself, mainly for letting down her guard. _"It seems that I lose my elvishness a bit more each year that I am apart from my kin,"_ she mused worriedly. For the moment, Ainë wished fervently never to see those eyes again…or to want anything as much. She had never associated elven affection with such…ferociousness. Galadriel and Celeborn's kisses had always been so reserved. Even Arwen and Aragorn had not shown such fervor in their passion. The way that elf had grabbed her, the way he'd put himself in such proximity to her, the sensations he evoked from her…it seemed so _feral_.

She surveyed her environment. The trees were growing farther apart in this place. She could see the outline of a talan maybe half a mile away, and the air had become tinged with the essence of…what had always seemed to Ainë, grace and rigorously-tended gardens. Places like Lothlorien did not lose their ambience, the ghosts who had loved that land so ardently.

She remembered her friend Sermë forcing her to promise to look in on her little garden and talan once every few decades before she and her husband had departed for the Grey Havens. The last time Ainë had been, dead leaves had covered the floor of the empty home, though the flowers had flourished wildly. In fact, all of Lorien had seemed to be blooming in a shadowed, lovely sort of way, in the absence of most of the elves. Nearly all of the flets had been overgrown with deep green ivy, the leaves flecked with gold. The ancient tomes in Celeborn's library had been carefully guarded since his departure, but the statues in its courtyard had been overcome by errant roses from Galadriel's collection. Even the birds sang sweeter, more lamenting songs. The larks that lived upon the roof of Sermë's place had made Ainë want to weep when she'd slept there. _"Their song, and the overwhelming desolation I felt without her."_

Fanya shook her mane in greeting, glad of her mistress's gentle touch. She loathed the harsh fragrance of Man; unwashed skin, cheap boot leather, and mud. She longed for the days that she had basked in the care of the elves every day, running with the _Mearas_ in the Field of Celebrant, and across the plains that belonged to the descendants of Shadowfax.

Ainë finished with her hair and brushed the errant blades of grass and leaves off of Fanya's back. The horse craned her head to make eye-contact with her. She seemed to be saying, _let us be gone!_

"_I know_, Vanimamin," (my beauty) Ainë whispered in Sindarin, stroking her long face. "Rato." (Soon.) Ainë crept to her bags, sliding her quiver and bow out and onto her back.

When she returned with a hare slung over her shoulder, she found Aldas sitting against the trunk of a mallorn, humming softly and carving something in a bit of wood.

"What is her name?" she asked, sitting across from him and taking out her dagger to skin their breakfast.

He started. "You are deviously quiet. I heard nothing of your coming, or leaving, for that matter."

"A trait of my people. Will you answer my question?"

He smiled sheepishly, his leonine face glowing in the pale dawn light. "Finduilas."

Ainë raised a brow. "Has she any relation to her namesake?"

Aldas looked at her curiously. "I know not of whom you speak. She is the daughter of the Steward Falastur and his lady, Lira, nobility reaching back past the Third Age." He looked thoughtful. "She did tell me that she had a bit of Shieldmaiden's blood in her, whatever that meant."

"She will be the great-great-granddaughter of Lord Faramir and Lady Eowyn." Ainë smiled. "A fine family. You are married?"

He blushed. "Our firstborn is due in a matter of weeks. I am anxious to be home." He looked off into the distance, and she knew that he saw Finduilas's face.

"What is she like?"

"Hair as pale as young wheat stalks, eyes bluer than the seaside of Ithilien. Her voice is comparable to nothing…if moonlight had a sound…" his voice trailed off, eyes glistening.

"May the Valor bless your union, and your child," Ainë said amiably, her heart warmed.

"Is he talking of her _again_?" Gareth's hair stood up at awkward angles, Ainë noticed as he sat up, yawning. She sprinkled some herbs from a linen pouch on her belt upon the carcass of her kill, and fastidiously perched the rabbit on the hot embers in the fire circle.

"I did not hear you leave to hunt," Artamir remarked, walking up.

"I daresay you did not. The race of Man truly has forgotten the Elves, haven't they?"

"You scoundrel!"

"What?"

"Do not play innocent with me. You've cheated."

Rumil looked innocently across the flet. "Dear Orophin, you are clearly not the best at cards. I beg you to remember your honor, and admit defeat with dignity."

Orophin stood up, scattering the deck. "Let us settle this like Men!"

Rumil grinned with delight. "Do, lets!"

"Would you both _shut up_?" Haldir growled from his cot in the corner. "If you insist on bloodying each other's faces, do it outside-and a proper two miles away."

"He's just tired from lack of sleep," Rumil said conspiratorially. "I heard him mumbling all night."

"Leave!"

"Would you like us to keep a lookout out for orcs while we're gone?" Orophin called on his way down the ladder.

Haldir sighed dramatically and sat up, abandoning all hope of rest. Perhaps he would climb to the top of a mallorn, or run a brisk 20 miles, or so. _"An elf could fade out of sheer boredom, around here,"_ he thought.

Rumil and Orophin, as of late, spent much of their time thinking of increasingly entertaining and daring things to do. Since they virtually had free reign over Lothlorien, they did not hesitate to expand the practice fields (fighting was on the list of Most Amusing Activities to Pass the Time), take control of the kitchens (so was eating), and generally cause havoc.

Haldir spent most of his time keeping them in check, and seeing to the other remaining elves in the city, who frequently complained about his brothers. Unfortunate Poldon, the appointed caretaker of the library Cerin Amroth, had battled the two in order to save his books and the existing elanor and niphredil from extinction.

"Oh, Haldir!"

Rumil's currently aggravating voice drifted up to the talan. Haldir stretched his arms, shaking the last bit of sleep out of them, and jumped straight out of the talan, to the ground.

"Brother," Orophin said happily, "It would appear that we shall be having visitors." Haldir cocked his head in the direction that the two indicated. A small band of mounted riders approached at a moderate speed. They appeared to be human…except for one, riding a dove-grey elven steed.

"What do you make of it?" Rumil asked.

"Does it really matter? You'd be glad to see an orc in the woods, these days."

"I daresay he'd keep it as a pet," Haldir commented.

"Oh, shall we surprise them?" Rumil was practically dancing around with joy. The brothers had not encountered outsiders for almost twenty years.

"To the trees. Move at my signal," Haldir said, his heart lifting slightly at the prospect of new faces…even if they were human. His brow furrowed slightly. Humans. He had not met a Man he liked since he'd been acquainted with King Elessar.

He much preferred hobbits, now. Several of the Fairbairns of Westmarch, as well as various Tooks and Brandybucks, had journeyed through Lorien. Orophin and Rumil had been elated at Merry and Pippin's uncanny knack for mischief, and heartily embraced their descendants. Hobbits were unimaginably loyal, as well as increasingly more adventurous. Frodo and the Fellowship of the Ring had set a pleasing trend for their kin.

Haldir grasped the ladder and leapt up into the trees, propelling himself soundlessly from branch to branch. He and the others had perfected their stealth techniques to faultlessness…even another elf would not be able to detect them above.

The silhouettes had been barely visible as they slipped from the canopy of leaves- the three men hadn't even noticed their presence until the horses whinnied in surprise.

Ainë had been vigilantly looking to the trees, but she was not aware of the elves until Fanya shuddered with apprehension, and a sword's pommel in the tree to her left had caught the sunlight.

"Daro!" (stop)

There were three of them, two with dark hair, and one with locks so fair as to be nearly white. All were tall and lithe, clothed in various shades of green and gold, blending in with the mallyrn.

Ainë beamed at the familiar face directly in front of her. "_Rumil! You've been practicing_," she observed in elvish. "_Usually, an intoxicated dwarf would be harder to detect in the trees. Well done."_

Rumil lowered his notched arrow. "_You cannot be too vigilant, these days,_" he laughed.

Orophin quickly sheathed his sword. "Mae govannen, Ainë." (well met)

"_You have brought Men into our midst,"_ a third voice mirthlessly intoned. Ainë twisted on Fanya's back and glanced at the blonde elf.

"_My apologies…I do have a reason. These are Gondorians on a mission for the King. It seems that even noble, educated Men such as themselves have forgotten the existence of elves. I mean to remedy this. Consider them an envoy."_

He looked angry. Ainë wondered why her chest grew tighter, the more she looked at him. At his flashing eyes.

"_And would you send an envoy of Men to the Shire, if hobbits had been forgotten?"_

Ainë quirked her brow, her voice cold as she said, "_And break the law Estel himself put into place? Surely such a situation is not comparable. I had believed that we elves, even with dwindling numbers, could take care of ourselves."_

Rumil laughed loudly, startling even the horses. Orophin was grinning.

"_Haldir, she rivals you in cool manner _and _quizzical brow!_"

Ainë looked bemusedly between her friends and their brother. _"May I make introductions, if we are quite through? Rumil, Orophin, I trust that you've brushed up on your Westron in your free time." _She turned to look at her companions. "May I introduce to you Captain Artamir, Aldas, and Gareth, of Gondor." She turned to the elves. "These fine elves are the Lord Marchwarden, Haldir, and his brothers, Lords Rumil and Orophin."

In the silence, she finally noticed the astonishment on the faces of the Men. Artamir and Aldas recovered some of their dignity, bowing from the waist up. Gareth's mouth still hung wide enough to collect insects.

"Welcome," Orophin said with a warm smile.

"We thank you," Artamir said carefully. "Though, we will not enter your lands, if there is objection to our presence."

"Nonsense!" Rumil exclaimed. "You shall be exalted guests! Follow us, I beg you." He turned and scampered up the nearest mallorn, calling, "You'll have to be quick to keep up!" Orophin, still grinning, swung up after him.

Haldir gave a last withering look to Ainë before disappearing into the leaves.

"Come!" Ainë called, spurring Fanya into a gallop. She could follow the green-gold blur of Rumil's back, even if the Gondorians couldn't.

Gareth had not thought it possible in his lifetime…not one elf, but four-in less than 24 hours. His Grandmother had whispered the tales to him every day of his childhood, and still...it was unimaginable.

He wondered if the elf-pretty King Astalmir was aware of their existence. He acted so superior and high-minded all the time, while only being a year or two Gareth's senior. Gareth shuddered. The indignity of it. It was fortunate that the Steward had things under control, Gareth thought.

Otherwise, what would happen to the realm?


	3. Chapter 3

The earth was cooler than usual. Her fingertips explored the texture of it, rubbing tiny pebbles and dark soil between her palms. It was as if the elves had taken a bit of its life energy with them. Ainë closed her eyes and delved deep into her soul, past thousand of years of memory and emotion and knowledge. Her being had become shadowed with loneliness and age. She searched until she had reached the core of her being. Her elf magic, that which had been first placed in the souls of her ancestors by the Valor.

She had always seen it as a throbbing little ball of golden light, pulsing with her heartbeat. Tentatively, she drew a bit of that energy away from herself, feeling the loss instantly with a chill down her spine. She gave the magic into the earth, into the forest and the flowers and the trees. She knew that they would need all the magic and love she could gift in the short period she was there. She hoped, as she gently pulled herself back to consciousness, that Lorien would hold the memory of the Elven presence forever…though this seemed far-fetched to her disenchanted mind. Everything seemed to change so quickly, so constantly.

Ainë walked leisurely towards Celeborn's library, brushing the dirt from her hands onto a fresh pair of green trousers. As soon as their riding party had entered the heart of Lothlorien, ten or so ecstatic elves had rushed out to greet them. The Men had been spirited away to the guest pavilions, while three elleths had rushed Ainë to a gossamer-covered talan, insisting on providing her with a hot bath, warm lembas bread, and fresh clothing. Ainë had had to refuse the gauzy yellow gown that was offered her, telling the broken-hearted Ladies- Halliel, Telperien, and Alcarie-that she was forced to insist on practical clothing.

"But we've an abundance of beautiful dresses!" Telperien had exclaimed in dismay. "All stitched and embroidered to brilliant perfection, in any color you like."

"What do you think we spend our time doing, in the winter months?" Halliel had asked dubiously. "Or in any month, for that matter?"

"Soon, we shall be inclined to give our garments into human hands," mused Alcarie. "Oh, how far we have fallen."

Ainë had simply been glad to be in the company of females again, especially her friends. Alcarie was a distant cousin, and she had known Halliel and Telperien for several centuries. Besides, elleths were so much more confident than the human women she had spoken with. They conveyed their true feelings unabashedly, without fear of reproach. In fact, most women she'd known had bowed to their husband or father's wishes meekly and unquestioningly. The strongest daughter of Men she had ever met (and liked) was Eowyn of Rohan.

She walked between the grey stone columns, into the cavernous chamber of books. The circular walls were lined with books of every color and binding, in leather and cloth and silk. There were several tables spaced throughout the room, each supporting a number of ancient tablets that contained the writing of Men, Dwarves, and even a bit of Elvish in the Old Language.

"Dear One, so good to see your face again."

Ainë smiled. "Poldon. It has been too long." She strode to the austere-looking elf and kissed him softly on each cheek. Her heart thrummed with the gladness of being in a familiar place. "How fare you, Bookkeeper?"

"Entrenched in battle with the same two scoundrels. They loosed Surion's covey of doves in this very room. It took me weeks to get the last feathers out of the shelves." He looked her over. "And how have you been, Keeper of Men?"

Ainë winced.

"That well?"

"For one of the Eldar," she said, walking along the nearest shelf and running her hand along the spines of the books, "I am extremely resistant to change. I feel that I take my eyes off of a man for one second, then look back to see his grandson in his place." She sighed. "The land here is cold."

"It has been so since Galadriel left. Frigid, wilder-a bit more like Mirkwood." Poldon fell into step with her. "But if you wish for her presence, all you need do it have a lie-down in the elanor, or take a walk in her rose garden." He glanced at her sagely. "She is still here. Celeborn himself told me that she would always be here."

Ainë gave a ghost of a smile. "Of that, I have no doubt." She continued to scan the shelves, taking comfort in the opulence of the old tomes.

"What are you looking for?"

"The Second Age of Númenor."

Poldon quirked a nearly-white brow. "Twenty steps forward, one shelf up. A bit of light reading, eh?"

"I need it for reference."

"So that searing wit of yours is failing you at last." Poldon tsked. "And you are not yet half my age. What shall become of the race of Man?"

"Ha," Ainë said without enthusiasm, preoccupied with her search. At last, her pale hands wrapped around a worn leather book, dyed green with golden lettering.

Poldon stared at Ainë for a moment, watching her as her attention turned fully towards the book, seeing the reverence with which she opened the cover and gently turned the pages. Her eyes narrowed slightly, scanning for some unknown prophesy or counsel. He wondered briefly if he had ever seen another female so rapt, so enamored with a book as he had seen Ainë.

Turning silently on his heel, the bookkeeper left her to her reverie.

Ainë had forgotten how an elven book lay perfectly balanced in her hands. Her fingers itched to stroke the silky paper, her nose already detecting the organic, spicy smell of the ink. She easily lost herself in the words, scanning every paragraph, every footnote. She knew not exactly what wisdom she needed…But a soft undercurrent of urgency drove her to look to the past for answers to her questions about the future of the Men that she watched over.

"_Why are they forgetting?"_ she thought, flipping several more pages. "_Why are the Kings allowing their people to forget the Elves?"_ The words began to blur slightly. "_Why do I not know what must be done?"_

Her mind raced. The Elven race was waning in Middle Earth. Ainë did not know if any would remain in another thousand years…or even in another two hundred. Many were bored with the lives that they now led, in the ruins of what their people once were, with ignorant humans. What tied them to the land anymore, other than a worship and adoration of the forests and former homes of elven kings and warriors long gone?

A hideous thought occurred to Ainë.

"Should _the elves be forgotten?"_

A cool wind stirred the curtains, bringing her closer to reality. Her breathing had become a bit labored, and several strands of hair had fallen across her face, unnoticed.

She dropped the book on the nearest table, unable to read any further. Nothing she'd seen had been of use. The trip to the library seemed like a mistake to Ainë…an unwelcome chance to think too much on an unpleasant topic. One that she knew she would have to address in the very near future.

She leapt down the white marble steps and bounded into the forest, knowing that nothing else would lessen the heaviness she carried in her chest. The feeling had built up from a muffled throb that began before the War of the Ring, and had risen to an acute pain just behind her heart. She'd suppressed it out of necessity and an unwillingness to deal with emotions of her own. "If you are feeling badly inside, look to the misfortunes of others, and help," her misguided mother had advised her since childhood. _"I knew she was wrong_," Ainë thought desperately. _"_Why_ did I listen?"_

The green of the leaves seemed to jump out, the gold in them sparkling as Ainë propelled her legs faster. She wove wildly around the trunks, as she had in her childhood. The bark brushed her shoulders and arms, like the eager hands of a child, grabbing at her cream-colored tunic. She willed her braids to unwind as she sprinted, savoring the rare moment of perfect freedom and clarity.

She did not stop until she reached a place wholly unfamiliar after an hour or so of running. She allowed herself to fall to the ground, arms flung out. The grass under her was fine, almost silken. The strands brushed her cheeks, now tinged with a hint of rose.

Ainë felt something wet on her face, and swiped at it with the back of her hand. She tasted the drops, feeling her heartbeat accelerate. "It is nothing," she whispered, more tears sliding down from her eyes, across her temples, to water the ground. "It is nothing."

She was secretly disgusted with herself. "_There is nothing to be crying about. You have remained on this Eastern shore to do your duty, and you have been content. You still have some friends here. You will know what needs to be done when the time comes."_

Images of an empty Imladris and Lothlorien flitted across her mind, pictures of a grey and empty world. The blood drained from her face. She saw herself standing alone among the cold trees, her eyes glassy and dead.

Ainë rolled onto her side, drawing her hands to her chest. She felt hollow and filled to bursting at the same time. She shuddered. "_Elves cry only to mourn,_" she thought, trying desperately to stop the tears. A quiet, significant thought occurred to her. "_When have I last mourned for my people…or Middle Earth?"_

Her chest and hands clenched as a sob wracked her body. She buried her face in the grass, smelling the damp, warm earth and crying silently.

"My child."

Ainë's head was clouded. All she could see was a blanket of snowy mist. The cool moisture coated her face. She touched the valley between her nose and eye. The tears were gone.

"My child, you must seek peace."

"There is peace," she said to the voice, peering into the whiteness, knowing what the words really had meant. "Men have lived without war for centuries, now."

"You must seek for peace within yourself." Galadriel's whisper soothed Ainë. She continued, "A lack of war does not mean that Men treat their women and children with respect, or they do not hunger for more land and wealth with every new generation. A lack of war does not mean that they are growing in knowledge of this sacred land and all of the ancient peoples who inhabit it. You have sensed that something is wrong."

Ainë closed her eyes and sighed. "I have felt it since Eldarion's death…though I never thought that Aragorn's blood would fail so quickly."

"It has not," Galadriel chided gently, her voice filling the space surrounding Ainë, growing a touch stronger. "The sons of Estel and Arwen will always possess strength, wisdom, and bravery. But beware, child. There is a poison in Gondor."

"A poison," Ainë echoed. "What must I do?"

"Act as you are. You are on the correct path, and you know what is right, in your heart. Trust your instincts and your old friends."

Ainë could not shake the lost feeling in her gut. "Lady, could you not give me some indication of what the future holds?"

"You need no such help from me. You underestimate yourself, Ainë Calliel. Be well. And wake up."

"Excuse me?"

"Wake up," the voice hissed, suddenly low and terse, and close to her ear. Ainë whipped around.

Haldir dodged her hand, hoisting up the soggy elleth by her arm. He'd found her on the ground, unconscious, seemingly feverish…Odd, considering he'd never known an elf to become sick, at least not in any of his five thousand years.

He could see her beginning to come around, murmuring. The small knot of concern around his heart loosened, giving way to anger. If any marauding humans had found her in such a vulnerable state, she could have been easily carried off.

"Wake up," he said again, his voice rising. He resisted shaking her.

Her eyes flew open. "Where am I?"

"In the woods, and alone, as well. Foolish of you, I should say."

Ainë straightened, pulling her arm from his grasp. "I'll thank you to keep your hands off of me, _Marchwarden_." She layered the last word with enough sarcasm and mockery to anger him. She almost smiled at the look on his face. Brows knitted together. Eyes blazing. Lovely.

"Have you been among humans so long that you've lost your sense _and _your respect?"

"Perhaps you have been isolated for too long."

"When is it that you are leaving Lorien?"

"Oh, not soon enough, my lord." Ainë turned and strode towards her guest quarters, having had enough of their childish spat. Her hair and clothing were soaked, and her arm still burned where his hand had held it.


	4. Chapter 4

Haldir rubbed his hand brusquely along his jaw line. He could not shake the searing heat of his anger…or the image of Ainë's light-colored shirt clinging to her sinewy body. But her _impudence_! It was mortifying that such a young elleth would behave in such a way, and to an ellon of his standing!

The leaves on the ground rushed into the air with every stride he took towards the archery grounds. He needed to shoot something, and there was a frustrating lack of orcs available for target practice.

He passed the guest pavilions where the humans were staying. _Men_. In _his_ forest! And she was responsible for that, as well. Unbidden, violent thoughts entered his mind. He whipped his longbow off of his back, strung an arrow, and fired the first of a rapid succession of shots into the hay-bale targets. They'd been artfully decorated by someone-Haldir suspected his brothers-to look like uruk-hai…with clownish, smeared red mouths, menacing eyes, pointy teeth, and ugly, black bodies.

"Something the matter, Haldir?" Camthalion, the resident smith, bowcrafter, and fletcher walked up behind him, admiring his shots. "You seem…tense."

"Everything is fine," he replied coolly, setting his bow at his side. "I will simply be happier when the Men are safely outside of our borders."

Camthalion gave him a wry look. "Funny, that you should be so wary of humans. You were, as I recall, close to Elessar, son of Arathorn, several years ago."

Haldir sighed. "Humans, I am afraid, are not all quite the same, _mellonamin_."

"So I've heard."

"Haldir! You'll never guess who I've just seen. And in such a state!"

"Whom, Orophin?" He asked with a sigh.

"Ainë. Soaking wet. In a white shirt. Walking from the forest." Orophin's grin grew wider with every word.

Haldir actually smiled at the thought of her walking through the city, sodden and immodestly dressed. The tips of his ears and his stomach warmed a bit from the thought, as well. He mentally shook his head. How could he harbor such lust for an elleth like _that_?

"It seems as though she has the need to relearn some manners," he said dryly. "Spending so much time with Men must have that uncivilized effect."

Ainë wet her lips as she looked at her reflection in the stone basin. The silver water illuminated her hair and eyes, but she was still an elf of unremarkable beauty. Her skin was too white. It never darkened in the sun, no matter how long she'd been riding on the plains. Her cheeks were hollow-looking. She frowned at herself.

As she noticed the silly lines between her eyebrows and childlike pout on her lips, a smile caught her by surprise. It spread across her lips, reaching even her stern eyes. The act made her face look fresh, like it had been bathed in sunlight. _"That's better,"_ she thought, turning from the table and sliding off her wet tunic and dirt-stained trousers. Telperien would be angry that she'd dirtied her new things already. Ainë stood for a moment, bemused. She did not want to incur the wrath of her hosts, especially on her first night in Lorien in decades.

A dark purple gown was strewn over a chair in the corner. She picked it up, scrutinizing its plain neckline and simple cut. The fabric slid over her shoulders and down her body like liquid amethyst. She smiled at the freeness of the flowing skirts, and raised her arms above her head, twirling slowly on her toes, with abandon. Her burden had seemed to slip off, little by little, since she'd emerged from the forest.

She tiptoed down the steps from the talan, hands skimming the bark of the thick tree it was nestled in. Twilight befit the forest, which now looked more silver than gold. Instead of singing, the leaves seemed to whisper in the breeze.

As Ainë tramped barefoot through the gardens that led to the dining area, she inhaled deeply. The humans. They wouldn't be invited to dine with the elves, of course. It wasn't customary, and she did not yet have good feelings about them. Aldas possessed a true heart, she was certain, and Artamir was a decent leader, but Gareth was so young, so naïve…

"_No,"_ she decided, _"Best not to fully trust them, not yet." _As sad as the determination made her.

Her ears pricked, her senses sharpening. Someone approached from behind. Someone with light, elven feet and soft breathing.

" 'Tis only me," flaxen-haired Alcarie murmured, grasping Ainë's forearm. "May I have the pleasure of walking with you?"

"Of course, cousin," Ainë said, wrapping grasping her hand and looping it through the crook of her elbow. "It has been _ages_ since we've spoken alone!"

Alcarie giggled softly. "How funny you are, Ainë. I have missed you, you know."

"Ah, but you've probably missed everyone more than ever, especially since you've been trapped in these woods with the same few elves. Rumil would have driven me mad, by now."

Alcarie looked at the dirt path, still smiling. "The solitude is noticeable, love, but not stifling. I've found the isolation comforting, actually. We've sort of built our own worlds here, now, each of us with our own ways of living." She sighed glowingly. "I am happy."

Ainë looked at her cousin. "How very whimsical, Alcarie."

"Do not laugh at _me_, Ainë Calliel!" Alcarie's own laughter was audible now, echoing through the mallyrn. As they approached the glowing pavilion where the elves took their meals, she tucked her loose golden braids behind her ears, gazing at Aine. "I would see you settled, dear," she said. "Your light dims a little more each time I see you."

Her tenderness made tears prick at Ainë's eyes. She took a stalwart breath. "You are going to hurt my light's vanity, Alcarie. Besides, I am as settled as I need to be," she said. "Who needs to be settled with so many kingdoms to look after? And so much power! I am such a power-hungry warmonger that I've no need for an actual _home_. With actual _permanency_. The very idea!" She shook her head, as if to rid it of the thought.

Alcarie grinned. "There you are, covering your true feelings with mirth. You may have real problems, one day."

"Darling, you shall be the first to hear of it."

"There's our honored guest! Come along, everyone!"

Ainë groaned, releasing Alcarie's arm to cover her face with her hands. "Orophin, leave me alone! Can't you leave me in peace, just this one evening?"

"Can you imagine?" Poldon muttered in her ear, appearing out of nowhere to guide her out of the small throng of elves appearing to greet her. "Those brothers actually being decent, for once? I shall never live to see the day."

"Ironic," Ainë mused, "considering the fact that you shall live forever."

Poldon shrugged, his platinum hair glittering in the torchlight. "I may not survive the next time Rumil tramps through the Lady's gardens. If I find one more bed of elanor trampled to death, I may fade from the grief of it."

They sat at a long, unpolished wooden table near the middle of the room, with everyone filling in around him. Ainë sighed with relief as she saw Alcarie's lily-green gown settle a short distance down the bench from her. Surprisingly, Rumil and Orophin flanked her, with Halliel sitting opposite them. She noticed that Haldir sat far across the room from his brothers, near the door…far from her. Instead of relief, she felt a small surge of frustration. And anticipation.

"So," Poldon said, "the Marchwarden has been ranting about your stupidity and insolence this afternoon. I trust your revelation in the woods went well?"

Ainë snorted. "That elf has spent too many long days alone guarding this place. To use a human expression, he needs to 'get out more'."

Poldon smiled. "I do not doubt that. And I wouldn't worry, if I were you. The Marchwarden has quite the bark, but not much of a bite. Socially speaking, that is. I wouldn't recommend meeting him on the sparring courts anytime soon."

"I can take him," Ainë said, puffing up with false bravado, evoking smiles from the elves around her. Unwillingly, her eyes wandered over to where Haldir was sitting with Telperien. Uncomfortable, unbidden warmth snaked through her chest. She inhaled, pushed the feeling aside, and continued the conversation.

The sun warmed the rocks around the small pool, causing the whitish limestone and quartz within them to glisten. Alcarie was draped over one boulder, clothed in only her white chemise, her pale green gown spread out next to her. Ainë was sunning herself on a rock nearby, while Halliel reclined with her legs in the water, looking much like a mermaid or a siren from the tales of Men. The day was young, and seemed as though it would stretch on forever.

Ainë concentrated on the warmth of her skin and hair, absorbing the energy of the sun with every fiber of her being. She couldn't help but be reminded of the nights she'd spend in the caves of the Misty Mountains, covered in snow, even her elven immunity not quite enough to keep her from feeling the bitter cold. She wanted to retain the sensations of that sunny morning forever.

Alcarie finally spoke, breaking the silence with her gossamer voice. "Ainë? Have you ever loved anyone?"

Ainë chuckled. "It's a little early for that question, isn't it?"

Halliel laughed, smoothing her black hair back. "She doesn't wish to answer."

"No, I will, I will." Ainë allowed her head to loll to one side, so that she looked into the water. "I've loved many people. Whom do you want to know about?"

"Lovers?" Alcarie probed, with an uncharacteristically devilish smile.

"Valar, no!" Ainë gasped with mock propriety. Alcarie sat up, and Halliel sharpened.

"Really? As in, you have had none?"

"I am as pure as freshly-fallen snow."

Halliel looked aghast. Alcarie frowned. "How old are you?"

"Older than you, that is for certain. Don't look so shocked!"

"Is it on principle that you've stayed celibate for centuries?" Halliel asked, turning over so that she lay on her stomach, legs still resting in the water. "Or are you just more socially inept than we thought?"

Ainë looked pensive, resting her hands on her stomach and looking up at the trees. "It isn't that I haven't wanted a lover. It's just that I've never had the right partner…or the right opportunity. I've always had camaraderie and friendships to fulfill me." She grinned. "_Aiya_! To befriend any hobbit is enough love and commitment for even an elvish lifetime." She turned serious. "Once you have something so very precious, it is difficult to consider replacing it."

Alcarie pondered the statement, for a moment. "You need something. Something other than responsibility and duty to add to your existence."

Halliel sighed. "You need to relax, Ainë."

Sorry it's been so long! (I just finished finals this week.) Thanks for reviewing, guys. I'll try to be faster with the next chapter, promise.


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